


but who asks satan

by VeryImportantDemon



Series: the moon is the same wherever you go [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Amenadiel is a good brother, And a really good therapist, F/M, Free Lucifer, Hell, He’s a good kid, Homesickness, Hurt Lucifer, Linda Martin is a badass, Lucifer is angsting, Lucifer just wants to go home, Pain, Prayer, Praying as communication, She cares about Lucifer so much!!!, Someone take care of him, no surprise there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 17:13:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/pseuds/VeryImportantDemon
Summary: Lucifer should not be having therapy in Hell, but he is.





	but who asks satan

Lucifer has been lonely. He was lonely before Beatrice’s prayer reached him, before he spoke to Chloe. But he is even more lonely after. 

 

He knows that time works different on Earth and in Hell. He knows that it may have only been a few days, a few hours since Chloe prayed to him, but it feels like weeks for him. It’s weeks where his condition is worsening. Weeks where he is in constant pain, his chest constricting and his skin burning and the blood… He coughs blood, he cries blood, and the droplets ooze from his pores, from the red, burned skin. 

 

The patch on his hand is spreading. It isn’t like back on Earth when he couldn’t control it, when his human disguise wore away. He hasn’t checked his other face - he wonders when the Devil became other and the angel became the norm - to see if that’s burning, too. Frankly, he doesn’t want to look. 

 

This isn’t normal. None of this is normal.

 

He compartmentalizes, boxes away the pain and confusion because he has hope now. Hope that he may not need to stay. His hope lessens the agony, but not enough. Not enough because he’s weakened, he’s dying, and he wants so desperately to get out. He wants to feel something other than cold stone and pain. He wants to feel alive.

 

He hears another prayer. This one is unexpected. It isn’t Chloe or Beatrice or even Amenadiel. It’s Miss Lopez. 

 

_ Hey, Big Guy,  _ she says.  _ So, I recently… Came back around. Realized you can’t base your faith on the good times. That’s not faith, not really. It’s being a fairweather friend. That’s not what I want to be. Someone got me thinking recently about praying. I told her you can pray to angels and they’ll hear you. I know you and your son, uh… Lucifer aren’t on the best terms.  _

 

Lucifer laughs. That is the understatement of the century, he thinks. Of course he and his father aren’t on good terms. But he stays quiet and listens. He feels like he’s eavesdropping. 

 

_ But I was wondering if you could pass on a message to him for me,  _ Ella continues.  _ Tell him that… Tell him that I’m thinking about him. And I’m praying for him.  _ She pauses for a beat.  _ I think that’s all for now. Thank you. Um… Bye. Talk later. _

 

She falls silent and Lucifer frowns. He hears Beatrice’s prayers and Chloe’s because they are praying to him. But Ella isn’t. She’s praying to God and he’s listening in, somehow. 

 

Which can’t be possible unless God is letting him. 

 

Lucifer smiles wryly. “Thanks, Dad,” he says. 

 

There is no reply, but he isn’t expecting one.

 

His head pounds when the prayer is done, like something is beating on the inside of his skull. He runs hot, normally, but with every beat of the drum in his head, his temperature flares. He runs hotter than normal humans do, but this is something else. “This again,” he mutters. 

 

He shakes his hand, like it’ll cool him down, but it doesn’t work. He pushes up the sleeve of his dress shirt, frowning when he notices the burns creeping up his arm. Lucifer huffs, peeling his suit jacket off. He drapes it over the back of his throne, carefully rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. Even if no one will see him, he’s still going to look presentable.

 

His back itches, too. Something he’s been loathe to admit is because of his wings.

 

Lucifer hasn’t taken them out since his flight down to Hell. He knows they’re still there because they ache and itch and drive him to insanity. But he hasn’t taken them out even though it will most definitely relieve some discomfort because he’s afraid of what he’ll find. Before he left Earth, they were white as snow. They changed, he assumes as he ponders the mystery on his throne, because leaving Earth for Hell is the least Devilish thing he can possibly do. 

 

But what are they now besides killing him? He doesn’t know. He’s in Hell again, so maybe those hideous monstrosities are back. Maybe he’s regressed again and he isn’t the man, the Devil, the  _ thing  _ that Chloe lives. When he couldn’t control himself, his self-hatred and loathing turning his skin red and his eyes to fire, she had said the only thing she was afraid of was losing him. That has to be love. And aside, she’s just told him, however many minutes or weeks ago, that she misses him and loves him and wants him home. 

 

Chloe doesn’t change the color of his wings, he reminds himself. He does. And God, perhaps. He has to look to know for sure. 

 

Lucifer has been afraid of his wings for far too long, in any case. He will not be afraid of them anymore. 

 

They unfurl with a snap but gracefully, like great cats awoken from a long nap. He doesn’t even need to strain his neck to twist and look at them because the tips of his wings, when he pulls them half in, are just in front of his face.

 

His wings aren’t white. 

 

They aren’t his Devil wings, either, which soothes his worry. But they aren’t white. His feathers are a pale gray, dusted in ash that darkens towards the tips of his wings and lightens the closer it gets to his shoulder blades. Lucifer reaches out, taking the tip of a feather at the very end of his wing in his hand. The fluffy white barbs of the feather stained gray fall away, leaving the skeletal quill and shaft behind. Hell does not like his wings, either, it seems. 

 

Unfurled is definitely less painful. The stretch is nice, but Lucifer’s wings still ache like every other part of him. He only entertains the thought of severing them for the briefest moment. If his dear brother does find some poor sap willing to take Lucifer’s place, then he may need his wings to get home. And, if he thinks about it, hurting himself doesn’t have the same appeal it used to. Growth, he believes Linda would say. Progress. 

 

He misses Linda. 

 

It’s almost as if thinking about how much he misses Linda summons her because it’s her prayer he hears next.

 

_ Lucifer? Lucifer, are you there? _

 

Lucifer lets out a sigh, smiling faintly. Linda. Good old talk some sense into him Linda.

 

“Oh, yes,” he says. “I’ve nothing to do but waste away and answer prayers.”

 

Linda laughs nervously. He’s glad to hear that, too. There’s so little joy in Hell. 

 

_ I’m sorry,  _ she says.  _ I wasn’t sure how this whole prayer thing worked.  _

 

“It’s quite alright, Doctor,” he says, shrugging. “It’s new to me, too. How is your spawn?”

 

_ Charlie’s great. Growing like a weed. No wings yet.  _ She pauses.  _ But never mind that. How are you?  _

 

“You know, I’m not quite sure,” he says. “How much do you know about where I am?” 

 

_ Chloe told me, Amenadiel, and Maze.  _

 

“I am doing quite poorly,” he admits. “Hell isn’t agreeing with me. And I’m starving. I haven’t had a good meal since I left. It’s disheartening. Ah, but there is one good thing.”

 

_ One good thing in actual and literal Hell?  _

 

“My wings are back,” he says proudly. “And as my therapist, I feel that you should know that I do not feel any desire to cut them off.” 

 

_ Well, Lucifer, as your therapist and your friend, I am very glad to hear that.  _

 

Lucifer smiles a little but then he thinks about the feather that fell apart at his touch. How much does he tell her? 

 

“I’m not enjoying myself much,” he admits.

 

_ I can’t imagine you would,  _ Linda says.  _ You left your home. _

 

“It hurts,” Lucifer says, and his voice is smaller than he intends for it to be. “It hurts and I do not like it at all.”

 

_ I know,  _ Linda says.  _ I know. But you’ll be home soon.  _

 

Lucifer takes a deep breath. Home. That does sound very nice. 

 

Linda breaks the comfortable silence but Lucifer doesn’t really mind. 

 

_ Can I ask you something?  _ she says.

 

“Always,” Lucifer answers. “And I will answer truthfully.”

 

_ What do you desire?  _

 

Lucifer almost laughs at the question. “What do I desire? That’s my thing, dear doctor.” 

 

_ I know,  _ Linda says.  _ But I’ve been thinking. I was going to bring it up once we’d worked on self-hatred and forgiveness. Your entire life has been spent asking others what they want. But Lucifer, what do you want?  _

 

Lucifer goes silent for what feels like a very long time. “Did you know in all my years,” he says slowly, “not a single person has asked me that.” There’s a weight on his chest when he comes to the realization. He’s thousands upon thousands of years old but no one has ever asked him what he desires.

 

“I know I told you I would answer truthfully, but I’m not quite sure,” Lucifer admits. “I… I’ll have to think on it. But right now, I desire to be…”

 

_ Home?  _ Linda offers. 

 

“Home,” Lucifer agrees. 

 

Linda pauses for a beat before she speaks again.  _ Charlie’s just woken up. Amenadiel has been in Heaven for quite awhile, trying to work something out. I will see you soon. _

 

She is so firm in her words that Lucifer believes her, really believes her. 

 

“I will see you soon,” he says, and then she stops the prayer. 

 

He knows the punch to the stomach when reality kicks back in is inevitable but he still isn’t ready. He coughs into his hand, droplets of blood left behind. He whispers a curse in Lilum, wiping the blood on his slacks. 

 

Pain flares in his palm so Lucifer hisses and pulls it up to examine it. The burn is spreading and what it leaves behind is worsening. His skin is flaking and red and peeling away. He gets a little dizzy when he looks at his hands, his feathers, because more of them are falling apart, too. He may not be able to fly himself home if this keeps up any longer.

 

He thinks about what Linda said while he withers away. He thinks about how no one has ever asked him what he desires. That’s a thing parents should do, he knows from watching the detective with her child and even from the briefest moments he watched his brother and Linda with their baby. 

 

Lucifer pushes God out of his mind. That isn’t something he wants to spend time on. Something far more pressing in his mind is his wings. 

 

He tries to make them look at least a little better, running his fingers through his feathers. The dark, ashy gray is still spreading towards the base of his wings and a few more feathers fall apart when he touches them with trembling fingertips. 

 

While he sits upon his throne, waiting, Lucifer starts to think about his Devil face. It’s gone, he realizes, and maybe it has been gone for a very long time. Ever since his wings returned, he suspects. The thought makes him happier than it should. He doesn’t have to look like the monster he fears he is. If he looks more like an angel, maybe he’ll feel like one.

 

Lucifer grows tired while he waits. It’s been so long since he’s returned. Years, perhaps. He dozes now and then because when he sleeps, he isn’t hurting. His wings aren’t falling apart and his skin isn’t burning and he isn’t dying and he isn’t alone. He’s with Chloe in every single dream. 

 

He isn’t a praying type by any means. But when he wakes, Lucifer prays she’s still coming for him. 

 

What he doesn’t know is who he’s praying to. 

 

“You’ve wounded me, brother.” 

 

Lucifer’s eyes flutter open at the sound of the voice. Oddly enough, he doesn’t remember falling asleep again after he’d woken the last time, begging, hoping, praying that Chloe is still coming for him. He assumes the voice is another prayer, likely from the endearingly insufferable Amenadiel because it is him speaking. 

 

“Bugger off,” he mutters. “I didn’t say anything.” 

 

Lucifer closes his eyes and turns his back, curling his wings in. There’s a pressure on his wings, rearranging his feathers. It feels nice, so in his tired, pained state, he lets it happen. There’s another voice, though, that interrupts him. 

 

“This is who he’s become?”

 

Lucifer huffs softly, unfolding his wings to peer out from his cocoon. “I was having a very pleasant dream, so if you lot could…” He trails off, frowning, when the two figures in front of him come into focus. 

 

There are many problems with this. The first one hat comes to mind is that the figures have wings. He blinks again and notices mottled gray feathers, a cleaner more ethereal gray than what Lucifer’s wings have become. He recognizes them instantly. “Amenadiel,” he says, sitting bolt upright in the throne. 

 

Dark spots dance in front of his vision and it is only Amenadiel’s steady hand on his shoulder that keeps him from slumping over. “Brother,” he says in a childlike, wondering tone. “You’ve come.” 

 

“Of course,” he says. “When Chloe told me where you had run off to, I couldn’t leave you.” 

 

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” Lucifer says softly. “Dragging me out of Hell!” 

 

Amenadiel shakes his head slightly. “You’re a strange one, brother,” he says. “And your fears were unfounded. She never stopped pestering me about bringing you home.” 

 

“I never said that,” Lucifer says, blinking again. His brother is giving off an obscene amount of light in the pit of darkness. It’s hurting his eyes. 

 

“You were speaking in your sleep,” Amenadiel says. “Get up. It’s time to go home, brother.”

 

“But…” Lucifer squeezes his hand into a fist to ground him. He’s so tired and in so much pain that he just wants to rest. He wants to rest on Earth, particularly. “I can’t leave. They’ll come after Charlie. The detective. Me.”

 

“Not on my watch.” 

 

The third voice has spoken, alerting Lucifer to his presence st all. His eyes widened at the great, winged figure clad in armor with a massive sword at his hip. “Michael,” he breathes. “The warrior angel deigns to visit little old me?” 

 

“I deign to do nothing,” Michael says, narrowing his eyes. “There are few wars to fight in the Silver City. It is my pleasure to grind rebellious demons under my heel.”

 

Lucifer smiles faintly at Amenadiel. “A warrior king,” he says. “A nice selection.”

 

“Selection,” Amenadiel repeats. “It was not as easy as it sounds. But there will be time for stories later.” 

 

“Ah, yes, yes,” Lucifer says. “Earth awaits.” 

 

He braces his feet on the stone of the throne but falters, swaying. It is only Amenadiel’s hand that saves him from plummeting. Amenadiel’s hand that cups Lucifer’s cheek and comes away bloodied.

 

“Let me, brother,” he says. He takes Lucifer into his arms and Lucifer does not complain. He falls asleep, feeling safe and warm for the first time in many years. 


End file.
